Mark Sennen - Tell Tale - A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

‘That would work, yes. But there’s still some explaining to do about the body. How it got here and why it was moved.’

Savage said nothing as Nesbit continued to work on the corpse. He removed a thermometer from his bag and inserted its remote probe into the girl’s rectum. He spoke into a small dictation device as he went over the body again, concentrating on the process of pulling apart the evidence, everyone else all but forgotten.

She left him to his work and headed back to the incident room vehicle in search of Inspector Frey. She found him inside the van, staring at a laptop screen.

‘Can’t fathom it, Charlotte.’ Frey’s finger hovered over a map of the reservoir and surrounding woodland. ‘The area where the body was found was searched not once, but twice. She definitely wasn’t there. But how did the bugger manage to enter the area with the body when the place was swarming with us lot?’

‘Maybe he didn’t arrive with the body.’ Savage pointed at the screen. ‘The boundary to your search grid is only a hundred metres from the dump site. My hunch is the body was somewhere beyond the boundary. The killer returned sans body, picked up the corpse from the initial hiding place, and carried the body back to where we found it.’

‘To what purpose?’

‘To prevent the body being found.’

‘Because we’d already searched the area.’ Frey nodded as if in agreement, but then shook his head. ‘But who would be stupid enough or bold enough to do that?’

‘Kinver?’

‘The fisherman?’

‘Yes. Seems a bit too much of a coincidence that he found the clothes and the body, don’t you think?’

‘He said he was walking back from his fishing position along a woodland path. He claims he heard something, went to investigate, and found the body.’ Frey smiled and then jabbed a finger at Savage. ‘He’s seen too many detective shows on TV too. Knew he shouldn’t approach the body, so he never went within ten metres. Layton pointed out the man’s footprints to me. There’s a distinct trail coming and going.’

‘Could he have thrown the girl that distance?’

‘Be sensible, Charlotte. Kinver’s telling the truth.’

‘You believed him?’ Savage wondered what Frey was on. Kinver, in her book, should at least have been arrested and brought in for questioning. ‘Nigel, I don’t want to—’

‘No, of course not. But I believed his wife. She and a friend were with him. Unless they’re in it together, Kinver’s in the clear.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. We’re back to Layton’s version. Hocus pocus and witchcraft.’

Some time later Fox heard the tap, tap, tapping of the pipe on the tobacco tin. Then a faint acrid aroma caressed his nostrils. His grandfather. Fox kept his eyes closed, not wanting to believe. He waited for the old man to say something.

Again: tap, tap, tap.

‘Simon?’ His grandfather’s voice sounded muffled, as if the sound was coming from far off in the distance. ‘Simon, wake up.’

He’d been dozing, the warmth of the sun soporific, the slowness of the game of cricket lulling him to sleep. He’d open his eyes now and his grandfather would suggest they drove off to a pub where the old man would buy a pint of Guinness for himself and water with a splash of lime for Fox. Maybe, if he was lucky, a lemonade. Now he did believe. This wasn’t the ending, it was the beginning. Whatever had gone before was done. He could start all over again, full circle.

Tap, tap, tap.

Fox opened his eyes. He was still sitting in his car, the tools still gleaming on the rack in front of him. His eyes flashed to the rear-view mirror. The garage door stood open now and the early morning light streamed in, pale, cold and unwelcome.

Tap, tap, tap.

‘Simon, what on earth are you doing? I woke up and didn’t know where you’d gone. Thought you’d been called out.’

Fox turned his head to see Jennifer, his wife, bent to the window. She clicked the door open and looked to the rear of the car where the hose curled across the back seat. Wafted her hand in front of her face to disperse the exhaust fumes.

‘Oh God, Simon. Why?’ Jennifer reached in and turned the key to the off position. She collapsed to her knees, her hands grasping at the door sill, her head bowed. When she looked up, tears were streaming down her face. ‘Whatever’s happened?’

‘The air-conditioning,’ Fox said. ‘Positive pressure.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Kept me alive. Despite everything. I fucked up. Again. I should have known better than to even try and make things right.’

‘Simon. Please.’

‘I tried, didn’t I? Made sure the reports got mixed around. The teams checked the wrong cars. They never found out. Until now.’

‘I don’t understand. What are you on about, darling? Tell me.’

‘Tinkering, bloody tinkering.’ Fox moved a hand to the top of his wife’s head and stroked her hair. Then he reached for the ignition and pulled out the keys. ‘Let’s go inside.’

In the living room, Fox bade his wife to sit. He stumbled across to the drinks cabinet and took out an unopened bottle of premium malt and two tumblers. The glasses clunked down on the occasional table and he unscrewed the whiskey and poured a generous measure into each.

‘No,’ Jennifer said. ‘You had enough last night and it’s not even breakfast time.’

‘Drink up, you’re going to need it.’ Fox considered his own glass for a moment and then returned to the drinks cabinet. He selected a fistful of mixers: bitter lemon, ginger ale, tonic water. With an opener in one hand and the bottles in the other he went and sat on the sofa. The bitter lemon fizzed open and he took a gulp straight from the bottle. Three more gulps and he’d drained the contents.

‘Simon, I—’

‘You remember a few years ago that lass was killed up on the moor? A hit-and-run accident?’

‘No, I can’t—’

‘DI Charlotte Savage’s kid. Nine years old. We never caught the driver, never traced the vehicle.’

‘Oh yes, of course, I remember now. The poor woman. Losing a daughter must be awful. I can’t imagine what I’d have done had anything like that happened to our children.’

‘No, I dare say you can’t.’ Fox pointed to Jennifer’s glass. She’d drunk a mouthful. ‘More.’

Jennifer took another sip. ‘What’s this got to do with you, Simon? Have you caught the driver?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’ Fox fizzed open another mixer. Tonic. He downed the bottle, the bubbles catching at his throat. He swallowed a burp. ‘Owen was up on the moor on the day of the accident. He’d camped out the night before, somewhere north of Princetown, with a few friends. They’d had a party way off in the wilds. Plenty of beer, a couple of bottles of spirits, other stuff as well. Lauren was with him too.’

‘Other stuff?’

‘I’ll come to that. Back then Owen drove that Impreza, didn’t he? All souped-up like a rally car. The important thing is, Owen’s route back the next day took him past the spot where DI Savage and her family were picnicking.’

‘He was a witness to the accident? He saw the hit-and-run car?’

‘Oh yes, he saw the car alright. Owen and Lauren were in the car. Owen was the driver.’

‘ What ?’ Jennifer’s hand went to her mouth. ‘Our son? He killed the young girl?’

‘Yes.’ Fox paused. His wife’s eyes glistened as they filled with tears. Fox wanted to move across and hug her, but he couldn’t. He had more to say. Much more. ‘Owen drove off. He panicked. He called me and I went round to his place. He showed me the damage to his car, confessed everything. He wanted me to bring him in. He was a complete mess, blubbering and ranting. Crying like he was a baby again.’